


Numb

by AboardAMoose



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blind Thranduil, Childbirth, Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 20:10:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3394835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AboardAMoose/pseuds/AboardAMoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas' birth, and the aftermath. There are only two ways an elf can die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The stench of blood. The thick, metallic, organic heat, in his Halls. The iron grip he held over himself wavered in the face of this. But there was no enemy to fight and no sanctuary to flee to. Not when the blood came from his own wife's endlessly contorting form, tearing itself apart to bring their child into the world.

For hours, his wife had struggled; his wilful, courageous love battling her own muscles into submission. Hours – but truly Thranduil had no notion of the length of time. No Sun warmed their faces, no nightly noises filtered through the thick rock walls of this part of their fortress home. He timed the seconds in his wife's harsh pants, the minutes in her groans.

“Thranduil, it burns.” Her gritted teeth contorted the syllables into hisses. Her forehead was damp as it came to rest upon his shoulder.

“That is a good sign.” Thranduil turned towards the _thêl nestad_ , whose methodical instructions had calmed the labouring she-elf more effectively than his own supplications. “It means it is nearly time. You will meet your heir soon, my King.”

Against his side, his wife's shoulders pulled back, a new determination preparing. “You amaze me,” he murmured to the she-elf who had won his heart, so many centuries ago. She had spent so long trying the mask the pain thundering through her bulging body, but the involuntary sounds ripped from her just grew in number and volume, and her grasping and writhing pulled at the rustling sheets. For hours upon end.

And then, at last, a gush and a grunt louder than the rest, desperate puffing for air, and... “Why are you weeping?” Thranduil could not help but ask, the question torn from him in fear.

Sobs had taken over his wife's body, sobs she could not speak through, and no one was talking to him. The _t_ _hêl_ _nestad_ was walking away, and his wife was crying. He could sense no new life come into the room, and he was frozen, reliant upon others for information, clarity.

Towelling on skin, vigorously rubbed. Echoing taps on flesh, hard slaps. And a thin squall of protest. Relief so strong its rush raised goosebumps.

“You did it,” Thranduil breathed the words. He wanted to hold her to him, press kisses to her brow, worship her as the miracle in his life she surely was. But he did not know how hurt the effort had left her, and he would not cause her more pain. So he stayed motionless, until she slipped her hand into his.

“I am fine, Thranduil.” She knew. Of course she knew. The scent of her blood was thick enough to taste, and he wanted to steal her back to their rooms away from it, and she had known that. He was glad she had thought to birth away from their most personal place. It would have haunted him for weeks.

“As is your Prince.” The _t_ _hêl_ _nestad_ returned, a quietly protesting bundle in her arms.

“A Prince. We have a son.” The Elven King, assured now that the movement would not harm her further, brushed his fingers across his wife's forehead, clearing her face of errant hair, before claiming the softest of kisses from cracked, bitten lips. How many moans had she hidden behind her teeth, as if he could not hear how her breathing strained?

“Would you hold him?”

Any hesitation, any fear, swept away beneath the desire to be close to his child. He held out his arms, and a surprising weight was tucked into them. His son. His son. _Ion t_ _í_ _n_. “ _Mae govannen, penneth_. I have been waiting for you.”

Thranduil kept half an ear on the _t_ _hêl_ _nestad_ , who was tending to his wife. Water sopped gently against the sides of a wooden bucket. Careful, oh so careful, he traced the new, damp skin of his son's face, exploring the features he would never gaze upon with featherlight touches.

“Sit with me,” came his wife's request. “Let me see him.” She had not moved from the bed's centre. There was room for Thranduil to perch, to reveal the being she had brought forth. “ _Fîn_ _c_ _hí_ _n_ _. Hind_ _c_ _hí_ _n_ ,” she whispered to him. “If he had not just come from me – something I can hardly forget – I would hardly believe he had a touch of me at all.”

“Do not curse the boy so,” Thranduil teased. He heard the soft wool the elfling had been wrapped in moved aside by her fingers, the stroke of skin against skin.

“All ten fingers and all ten toes. Oh, he has the smallest fingernails.” Her voice lowered again, her nose coming to Thranduil's ear. “Relax. You do not have to strain to hear each breath. They will still be drawn in and blown out a millennia hence.”

Thranduil had not even realised he had been doing so, until he released the tension it caused. But she had known. Of course she had. “I have to tell the court.” He made to pass the child to his wife, for he did not want to take his first steps with that precious load in his arms before others for the first time. It was a new weight, and so delicate.

“ _Dartho._ Five minutes. We have a lifetime to be the Royal family. For five minutes, let us just be us.”

“Leave us,” Thranduil instructed the _thêl nestad_. “If my wife is tended to, we will have five minutes alone.”

“ _Trass_ _ú_. I am fine.” She was smiling as she spoke. Thranduil had always loved that sound. “Just tired.”

They sat together, quiet, content, and Thranduil found himself counting each of his son's breaths once more, despite his wife's scolding. Each a little miracle. Air huffed in and out a tiny, perfect pair of lungs, the blood pulsed through, drawn by a strong heart.

So focused on the infant's breaths was he that he did not realise his wife's had ceased. He did not see her eyes close.

 

Translations:

_thêl nestad -“Healing sister”_

_Ion t_ _ í _ _n - “His son”_

_Mae govannen, penneth - “Welcome, little one”_

_ Fîn  _ _ c _ _ hí _ _ n _ _. Hind  _ _ c _ _ hí _ _ n - “Your hair. Your eyes.” _

_ Dartho - “Wait.” _

_Trass_ _ ú - “Worry not.” _

 


	2. Chapter 2

The elfling cried. It was the most earsplitting sound. Thranduil had heard the screech of a dragonmother when her nest was threatened, the wails of mourning for a thousand thousand fallen, the screams of innocents devoured by black flame. Yet nothing compared to this sound, which seared through his skull and echoed there even when his son drew breath between cries. He could hear it wherever in his Kingdom he fled.

Not that he ventured far.

Days passed and he could hardly summon the energy for more than the most basic of tasks. He could not feign interest as his advisers spoke of the preparations for the reclamation of his wife's body – he had faked attention on occasions numerous enough to be as convincing as he had the desire to be, but in this instance... What was it worth to soothe their tender feelings? Advisers and staff who had been interchangeable for centuries came and went, carrying out the domestic tasks that were required to keep the Kingdom rolling smoothly and rooms comfortable, clean and stocked. His son was fed and clean whenever he found the spirit of will to visit, but he could not stay for long.

The elfling made the only sound that rang loud.

The rest of the world was no longer sharp. Sounds were muffled. When air was disturbed, his skin no longer tingled and told him why. Heat and cold, the shifting breezes, the brush of matter against his skin – he was numb to it all. The air he inhaled was no longer a bouquet to be sorted through over an instant, but stale and dry.

He knew what this was. He knew when he stumbled on the procession for his wife's wasting form. He knew when he bumped into this guards, falling out of step. He knew when he lost his way in the hallways he had known every worn paving stone of by touch of foot for centuries. But when the light of the Eldar was draining from your _rhaw_ , you no longer cared.

His world had become so dull, the one source of colour in his world of shadow removed. She was gone, and he was alone, trapped in the motions of a life he had inhabited for centuries, but offkilter for his loss, a counterweight removed so his world tilted. Down. Always down. There was no other direction at this point, not for him.

They whispered. He knew. His staff were full of talk of their King's fall into nothingness. But that knowledge held no significance. It did not matter.

It had mattered, so intensely, the whispers when he returned from war without his sight. They drove him to learn to walk with his head held high once more. Now, the words held no meaning and stirred no flame of feeling.

Few dared to breach the door of the King's private chambers without permission, so Thranduil began to seek refuge in it. Food came and went, sometimes into him and sometimes simply back out the door. Slowly, Thranduil's realm became smaller – from the mighty forest, to the underground halls, to the Royal Quarters, to his rooms, to his bedroom, and finally to the four corners of his mattress. Each successive loss brought no further gloom. The narrowing of his universe passed without recognition, miles of trees and stone simply fell from any sort of importance – it meant nothing to Thranduil anymore.

He felt no different beneath the ancient boughs he had lost so much protecting from the darkest threats. What was the point in venturing into them? It was not any better there than his bed, beneath coverlets and atop pillows that still smelled faintly of her, though evermore of him. At least in his bed he did not have to face anyone, expose them to his misery, which he knew well was contagious enough to make quarantine desirable.

There were a few upon this land, however, who shone so brightly through the haze that he could not fail to notice them.

“Glorfindel.”

His senses were not so dull yet that he could not identify this Elven Lord, unique among elvenkind, the Balrog Slayer. The essence that was him was like no other, for no other had ventured as far as he and returned. It left Glorfindel such that Thranduil had known the moment he stepped into his Kingdom, and having him in his room made his spine tingle, as his despair-cauterised nerves attempted to process the overload of stimulation that his presence created.

“My noble King.”

Thranduil did not address the falsehood. He was in a bed he had not moved from for three days, as his _fae_ surrendered its hold on his _rhaw_. This was not nobility, and in his family a crown was earned. No circlet adorned his brow, nor had it since her body was taken.

When another moment of no reaction beside Thranduil's unseeing stare had passed, Glorfindel stepped into the room, pushing the door to. “ _Firoch, mellon nin_.”

It was the first time any had the courage to say the words aloud to his face, and Thranduil was surprised that it stirred a hint of feeling. “I will tarry not long upon these shores, now the light that gave these scarred eyes sight and old heart vigour has gone.”

“Not so old,” Glorfindel reminded him, as if they were drinking in the feasting halls, merrily telling tales and teasing linguistic blows. Thranduil's bed sagged as Glorfindel took a seat upon it, impropriety wielded in a way none in this Nandor land could. “I have no desire to lose you. There is more that must be done.”

The Elven King could have argued. Pointed out that Glorfindel, Valar Blessed though he was, had little knowledge of his own purpose returning, let alone others' purpose. But he no longer possessed the energy to argue with the elf who burned so bright it cast him further into shadow. “I am so tired.”

It took Thranduil longer, so much longer than once it would have done, to understand that the wrinkling noises he was hearing were caused by Glorfindel's fingers, clenching and unclenching fists, fidgeting against the blanket that could already have been named a shroud. He was not one to show anxiety.

“What more?” the King sighed, wishing desperately he could be left alone to sleep again.

Glorfindel's hand made a compulsive movement. Thranduil wondered if he had thought to touch him, before reconsidering. “Today, I am merely the messenger. My Lord Half-Elven is coming. He has crossed the borders of these woods and he will be at your gates by tomorrow nightfall.” Thranduil's senses had not even sparked when a ring of power crossed into his forest home. Just two days before he had sensed Glorfindel. It was leaving him fast now, then.

“I need no Healer. I need to be allowed to sleep.”

“I am not going to let you slip away.” Was that anger? Thranduil wondered why, briefly, but when Glorfindel said no more, Thranduil was relieved. He would be allowed to sleep again, then, even if he had to do so with the dim buzz of Glorfindel's otherness at one corner of his mind, and the shrill crying of an elfling that hardly ceased still audible in the other. Sleep that took him from those things, dulled them and the pain that seared through him with every breath.

 

_r_ _haw - body_

_fae – spirit_

_Firoch, mellon nin - “You are fading, my friend”_

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for mention of past miscarriage  
> It's been a long time since I summoned Sindarin grammar, so forgive my errors.

For Elrond, and for peace from Glorfindel's cajoling, Thranduil bathed and dressed, but his hair hung lax and his clothes were limp about him. He was dwarfed by the heaviest robes after weeks of hardly eating and Glorfindel had struggled to find anything plainer or smaller.

When, under the Balrog Slayer's instruction, servants brought food, Thranduil reached only for the wine. When they opened the long curtains that shielded his balcony to let in the starlight and the moonlight and the sounds of a forest full of light, he merely stood and closed them again.

“What would you do if I opened these curtains and doors again?” Glorfindel asked, from his seat opposite the King.

“The last time I stood on that balcony, beneath Vadar's heavens, bathed in the sound of my home and the woodland breezes, my wife had her child in her belly, she was backed against the pillars and she was crying out but not in pain.” Thranduil wondered vaguely if Glorfindel blushed. He certainly stilled. “Do not make my heart ache more than it already does. I can no longer feel your entrance into my home, Elrond.” He named the elf who was close enough in the hallway to be heard and to hear. “But I can feel the loss of millennia old love in every part of my being. How is that fair? How can you not wish to leave all of that behind?”

“You forget that I too have faced that agony.” Elrond moved into the room now, alone, but Thranduil could hear the whispering of his twin sons in the hallway. “I have felt that despair and that pain, and heard the call of Mandos. I sat as you do, willingly surrendering a little more of my being to his care day after day, just to make it stop.”

Thranduil was silent. He heard Elrond greet Glorfindel, a hand meeting fabric, probably his shoulder. He was glad he could not see their faces. The pity.

“Do you want to know how I came home to myself?” Elrond asked, not put off by the Elven King's silence.

“No.”

“Because then you may be tempted to try? To leave behind your selfpity? Because it would remove an excuse?”

Thranduil felt no anger at Glorfindel's challenge, and did not respond.

“Hush, Fin.” Once, Thranduil would have been amused by the pair playing off against one another, but he realised as much as if detached from it, floating outside the conversation. “Thranduil, please hear me. I was not alone. I cared not that I had a people who needed me, but I had friends who would not let me face my misery and hurt alone and I had children who could not bear to lose another parent.”

“Well there we differ, Elrond.” Thranduil did not like how close he felt the Peredhil had come to his chair. “My child will know no different. Others care for him now. He will not miss his _Naneth_ and he will not miss me.”

“Of course he will!” Glorfindel exclaimed. The whip of hair through the air had to be Elrond turning towards the blonde, presumably to glare for there was a note of defensiveness in the Balrog Slayer's voice when he continued. “Others may care for him, others may love him as fiercely as you would, but now he screams because he knows. He is sprung from two powerful lines, he knows his world is wrong.”

“Leave us for a while, will you please?” Elrond asked Glorfindel, soft, still so soft.

A moment of tension passed, but Glorfindel conceded and retreated from the room. Thranduil did not miss an explosion of questions from Elladan and Elrohir before the door closed.

Alone now, Elrond was quiet. Thranduil's skin tingled under the sharp gaze. He remembered Elrond's eye from long ago, they were so different. So like the _firiath_ he loved so much. Those eyes cared more than he ever could.

“Did you know you've let your illusion fail?” came the elf's gentle enquiry.

“I have not left my room. It hardly matters now.”

“Will you let me examine you? As it does not matter?”

“That is what you came here to do.” It was the nearest to permission Thranduil would ever give, and Elrond knew that well enough.

Light fingers, warm, stroked against his forehead, found his temples, lingered. Elrond, he had thought, was too professional to react, but after a minute of featherlight intrusion the Elven Lord brought his forehead against the King's. “Aii, Thranduil. The darkness you are battling. I am so sorry you must face this.”

Wearily, Thranduil surrendered. He knew Elrond would not let him remain quiet. He would not be left alone until he spoke. “It is not a battle if you are not fighting. I am an intelligent being. I know what I am doing.”

“That is what makes it worse.” Elrond became firm as he drew away. “But there is still hope for you. You have not given everything yet. You can still come back from this.”

“To what? “Thranduil demanded, gesturing outwards. “ _Na-cuil ned naeg, ereb. Na-aranarth dagra môr. I ui ad-tola, Elrond. I ui ad-tola a laew sauthim. Meneg a meneg anann cuinnir. Si, ennas sun._ ”

Elrond seized on his words. “But there is still life. There are still more of us, more lives being created. _Ion_ _c_ _hí_ _n_ , Thranduil...”

“You can not even speak Celebrían's name without flinching deep within. I know. I have always known. I do not want a life like that. A life of hurting – another thousand, three thousand, seven thousand years of fighting and hurt. And not being able to say her name.”

Thranduil knew he had not played fair, for he had felt Elrond's physical reaction at the name of his own wife, but he did not care. Why would they not just let it stop?

When he spoke, Elrond was calm and measured, wielding a forgiveness more serene than Thranduil deserved or craved. “We are fathers. Both our fathers battled with themselves, though they love us desperately, they were not always the fathers we needed them to be. We both swore we would be better Adas than they had been. Will you leave before you have even had a chance to prove it? He is your only chance, _hên minai_ _c_ _hí_ _n_.”

“You may take me as a fool, but I am not.” Thranduil was cold. He had played this game himself. “I know that Glorfindel approaches. I know he has my son in his arms – that elfling's cries seem never to end.”

“You have not even held him since she died.”

Of course Elrond had been speaking to the staff.

“ _Garnnin i-hên ir fire._ I was counting his breaths and forgot to count her's.” He had known she was weak, he had hardly been able to breathe himself in that room which stank of the blood that had gushed from between her thighs and he had sent the _thêl nestad_ out anyway. He had not seen her turn pale or blue. He had not seen. He had not known.

“How many time had you held her, weeping, as another wasted child came forth, twisted and lifeless? You could not have known this would be the end. It cost her so much yet still she shone for you.” Elrond's hands gripped his hard. “But this one lives. Let him become your light in the darkness you live your life in.”

As they spoke, the elfling's wails came closer and closer, and through the numbness Thranduil felt his grief take a different form. The pain flared fresh and bright. “She would never have wanted him to cry.” He turned his face towards Elrond, for the first time forcing himself to do his guests the courtesy of aiming for eye contact. “I do not want my son to see me like this.” He waved to the exposed muscle upon his face, where the dragonfire had forever torn away his skin, and the scarring down his sides and hands.

Elrond's voice rang out. “Do not enter here Glorfindel. Not yet.” Furtive and soft once more, Elrond confirmed, “You can not have the strength to maintain it.”

Thranduil's pride was a delicate thing, but he had known Elrond for so long. “Help me.”

The Peredhel placed his long, jewelled fingers back upon the King's face. He murmured, and the tingles of ancient magic shivered through him. Elrond's skill did not just glamour his skin. It reached to Thranduil's own, coaxing it, offering kindling for the stuttering, strangled flame.

“Elrond...” Thranduil's fingers dug into the arms of his chair as he struggled to remain still. His breathing was harsh in his own ears, each gasp a strained attempt to remain in control of himself, against the intrusion.

“You asked me to help.”

How Elrond could remain this calm when he was pouring magic through Thranduil's shivering body the younger elf did not know. Vilya was a cold line against his jaw. His blood was pounding and his magic was rising and rising, so fast, it had never surged within him like this.

He felt everything. Thud of every heart in his realm, from the doormice to the great stags. The scuttle of millions of insect feet. The struggle of each ancient tree and new, reaching, reaching. His senses returned twofold. Pain. Hunger. Lust. Arousal. Death. Birth. Fear. Hatred. Passion. Love. Kindness. Theft. Blood. Sweat. Essence. First breaths. Last breaths. Every moment. Every second of every day. And a child crying.

“ _Farn_!” Thranduil roared to his feet, breaking the connection. “Enough!”

The loss was so great, so sudden, he lurched forward, almost retching, in a world turned black in an instant. Elrond caught him. Called out. Two others helped the Lord lower the King to the floor.

He could not stop trembling.

“ _Ada, man-?”_

Thranduil could hardly decipher the buzz of Elladan's words. His pants were juddering, ineffectual. He knew hands were upon him, stroking his flanks as if he were a frightened mare, but he drew little comfort from them. He did not know who they belonged to. He could not comprehend his world. From too much to too little in one moment.

And then a weight was placed upon his chest, and he did not have to think as his arms wrapped around the body of his son. A head that could not support its own weight buried beneath his collarbone and tiny hands curled into fists in the fabric of his robes.

As Thranduil lay there, the cries that had haunted him fell away into silence. Elladan and Elrohir's voices vanished back into the hallway. With fewer sources of sound, he realised it was Elrond's hands who smoothed his sides, for the Lord spoke quietly to Glorfindel.

“He is cold.” Thranduil's palm covered his son's tiny fist and he immediately made his observation. Elrond stood and moved towards the bed, leaving just Glorfindel kneeling at the King's side.

“Lay your head on me,” Glorfindel urged. “Get comfortable. That young one will not be wanting you to move in a hurry.”

Suddenly craving the grounding contact of another, Thranduil shifted himself carefully, so that his head was pillowed upon Glorfindel's thighs. The Balrog Slayer was propped against the bed, and his fingers shifted through Thranduil's hair. Elrond returned with a blanket to cover the King and the Prince before he knelt on the other side of Thranduil to Glorfindel.

“ _Thelo nem pednem la erch_ _í_ _n_.”

Thranduil wanted to shy from the Ring Bearer after the demonstration of his power, but he would not insult his friend so. “I still feel alone,” Thranduil confessed. “I can hardly... feel a thing. Putting my son in my arms does not change that.”

“No, but it gives you a reason to change that. And I have shown you – and us – that you still have the capacity and power to return to us. If you wish it.”

Thranduil inclined his head slightly to show he understood. The stone of the floor was cold beneath him, but he did not move. There was a tiny infant upon his chest and, like this, his instinct for protection and possessiveness had all rekindled. This little form was his, and his alone.

He was so tired, and he freely confessed it.

“ _Losto.”_

“ _Dartho.”_

“Of course.”

“Do not let anyone in.”

 

_Naneth – mother_

_firiath - Mortal Humans_

__Na-cuil ned naeg, ereb. Na-aranarth dagra môr. I ui ad-tola, Elrond. I ui ad-tola a laew sauthim. Meneg a meneg anann cuinnir. Si, ennas sun. - "To a life of pain, isolation. To a Kingdom under darkness. It always comes back, Elrond. It always comes back again. Thousands and thousands of us lived once. Now, we are so few."_   
_

_hên minai_ _c_ _hí_ _n - “Your only child”_

_Garnnin i-hên ir fire – “I was holding him when she died.”_

_thêl nestad - “Healing sister”_

_Farn - “Enough”_

_Ada, man-? - “Father, what-?”_

_helo nem pednem la erch_ _í_ _n - “We meant it when we said you are not alone”_

_Losto - “Sleep”_

_Dartho - “Stay”_


	4. Chapter 4

Representatives of every family in the Kingdom and many more from outside it besides crowded into the grand feasting hall. All of them eagerly awaited the introduction of their infant Prince. He had survived the pregnancy and that time again, so his chances of survival were good. He could now be introduced to the elves he was first in line to rule, should the unspeakable occur to his father.

His Ada had not been seen for the first eight months of the elfling's life, except for his wife – the once Queen - 's funeral ceremony and body's reclamation. Rumour raged as ever it did in a close-knit, confined community with extraordinary hearing. It had soared to a peak when the great Elven Healer Elrond Peredhel and Balrog Slayer Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower ensconced themselves in the Royal Suite for a month. Only for the last six weeks had Thranduil been seen in his Kingdom, moving swiftly from one meeting room to another, never lingering and laughing as he might have done when he bore his wife on his arm.

So sad. So very sad, the whispers all agreed. So sad.

A curving balcony and suspended path wound its way over the heads of the gathered. It was used often for performances, or for the orchestras so the music poured down without interference. On great occasions, weddings often, servants would scatter flowers from these heights. Few paid it attention now, but upon the stone stood the Lord of Imladris. He was waiting, and for what swiftly became clear. 

Some of the sensitives below looked upwards as Glorfindel strode out of a passageway and drew alongside his Lord.

“He is ready?” Elrond asked. 

“As ever he may be,” Glorfindel confirmed. His fingers thumbed together. “I know this is traditional, but I worry. I do not know how he will fare.”

Elrond, however, shook his head. “He is a great elf, and a great King. He must return to the business of his Kingdom in full to return to full health himself.”

Glorfindel looked askance at his friend of so many years. “Elrond... You know he will never be the elf he was-”

The half-elf's eyes were fixed upon the stage on which Thranduil would take his throne. It looked so wrong without the smaller throne for his Queen. “No.” Elrond passed his hand over his heart. “No he will never be the same. But at least he will still be.”

-o-

Behind the one set of closed doors that divided himself and his Kingdom, Thranduil was doing his best to stand still and not throttle Elrond's eldest son. Elladan was daubing frantically at the shimmering fabric of the King's thick robes, where his son had vomited a sickly sweet milky substance almost as soon as the twin had passed him over.

“If you apologise once more, I will slice your head from your neck with the ceremonial sword they want me to nick my son's skin with,” Thranduil growled as Elladan flapped about him.

“Almost gone, almost gone,” Elladan chanted his promises.

“I can still smell it.”

“The smell lingers but the stain is gone,” Elladan tried to assure him. When Thranduil felt the cloth of his robe, it was just damp, impossible to tell if it was stained or no.

“Elrohir?” He trusted the quieter twin slightly more. And he would be able to detect a lie from this one.

“You can see the dark where it is damp but little more. I am sure the parents in the audience will find it endearing.” He held the infant in his arms. “Do you think the time may be upon us now, my King? He will be needing to nap in half an hour by my clock.”

Reaching for his son, placing his quick breaths and plucking him easily from Elrohir's arms, Thranduil grumbled, “I will be the one needing a nap in half an hour.”

For a long moment, he stood before the door, just collecting himself.

“Are you ready to meet our people, ion nin?” he whispered to the soft, warm weight in his arms that was stirring. Long ago, he had posed the question to his wife, standing before the same grand entrance as they prepared to take their thrones for the first time. 

She had held his hand and led him forwards. No, Thranduil brought forward her son, to the sounds of trumpets ringing clear and a gathered multitude rising to their feet, silks and velvet clad forms in a room heaving with life.

The doors opened, letting through the sound of murmurs and clapping of hands... over six hundred pairs of hands, if Thranduil's instantaneous extension of his senses was correct. With the amplification of the carved stone ceiling it was almost too much, and Thranduil wavered. There were few souls who stood out, but above the crowd the warming presence of Elrond and the shivering heat of Glorfindel waited. They had prepared him for this and he would not disappoint them, himself and his child.

Instead, he raised his hand to cradle his son's downy head, slipping forwards his fingers to shield the tiny but pointed curls of the infant's newformed ears.

They had practised this walk. Too many times he had overshot his throne, used to it being further over, his wife's beside it. But with all the sound in the carven hall, Thranduil found for the first time since his wife's passing that he could extract and understand the movement of the pulses of the noise as he had before. A slight tilt of his head to make it sharper and he strode with confident steps towards the throne, around it, stood in front.

He raised his hand from his child's head. The crowd fell into silence at his signal.

“My good people, noble guests, friends of old and those newcome to these great lands, welcome. When last we came together, it was in grief, for one of our best had left us. We still mourn that loss.” He pointed his head up to the walls, where he knew black curtains draped over carvings. “But the Greenwood does not despair, for after the barren wastes of winter comes spring and green leaves once more. So it has ever been. So it is now. For I present to you now this Kingdom's newest son, Prince of this Realm, Legolas Greenleaf. May his coming into his name herald a new era of glory and plenty for all who live in peace beneath the boughs of the Greenwood.”

One step back, and Thranduil took his seat before them all, Legolas snug in his hold, looking about but unaware of the significance of the occasion he was a part of.

Then the presentation of gifts to the Prince and of the Prince to the gathered began, and Thranduil had to concentrate on shrouding himself from any show of weakness, though every time a guest murmured his wife's name with condolences, the darkness seemed to reach for him anew.


End file.
